


The 43rd Hour

by ScribeOfRED



Series: Hours of an Alternate Life [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Injury, Post-Betrayal, Pre-Fall, character death (mentioned), this boy needs a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 03:05:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13941240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeOfRED/pseuds/ScribeOfRED
Summary: Interquel to49 Hours. Nyx reflects on everything that's happened since Scientia was kidnapped and muses on what's to come. Oh, and he might be suffering from blood loss too, that's fun.





	The 43rd Hour

**Author's Note:**

> Major thanks to [ScribeOfRhapsody](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeOfRhapsody/pseuds/ScribeOfRhapsody) for kicking my dragging butt along so I'd finally finish this. You're the best, bud <3
> 
> Set, as the name might imply, between Chapters 24 and 25 of _49 Hours_.

Less than one hundred feet from the top of the ravine, Nyx stumbles and falls.

He doesn’t mean to, doesn’t even really register it’s a possibility until he’s on his hands and knees, blinking down at the rough gray stone swirling beneath his palms as he tries to catch his breath. It’s hard, each inhale snagging on something deep within his chest, painful now where it wasn’t just minutes before, which doesn’t make sense. The potion the mercenary threw his way fixed all the damage—a process he’s going to be dreaming about for too long—so he isn’t certain what this is, aside from perplexing.

But then, he’s never been stabbed before today. Once is definitely enough.

Whatever’s going on now, it’s a dull ache compared to the raw agony of being run through, but it’s still less than pleasant, and so he closes his eyes, focusing all his attention on drawing air into his lungs. Slow breaths hurt less, he discovers, and once the ground has stopped capering about beneath him, he pushes himself back to his feet.

Cor is still striding steadily up the rough path cut into the side of the wide ravine, far enough away that Nyx has to lengthen his stride considerably in order to catch up, all the while trying to breathe as evenly as he can. That Cor can move uphill as fast as he is while carrying the prince rankles a bit, but there’s more than one reason he’s earned the title of Immortal.

He also hasn’t recently been stabbed. Definitely a factor.

Not that comparing himself to the so-called Immortal matters right now, especially while Prince Noctis remains limp in Cor’s arms, looking young and vulnerable, even with streaks of blood glistening down his neck under his ear. Hard to believe this kid only minutes ago delivered a devastating blow against—

Well. That’s something to parse through when he isn’t trying his best to keep his feet square under him, so he nudges—then, when it proves stubborn, shoves—the thought aside for now and focuses. One step after another. Inhale, exhale. Don’t think about how the empire has spread its insidious tentacles all the way up into the highest echelons of what’s supposed to be Lucis’s primary guard _against_ the empire.

Which begs the question: if Drautos, longtime captain of the Glaive, is a traitor, then who else? Is anyone trustworthy?

It’s something that will merit plenty of meditation and private conversations with the king. The best he can do for now is keep his wits about him and make note of any suspicious behavior he witnesses so he can report it. At the same time, he’ll have to be careful he doesn’t read too much into what just a couple days ago would have passed as completely innocuous. If care isn’t taken, the entire Glaive will devour itself by way of infighting—surely not the empire’s goal for Drautos’s position, but they’ll likely accept any result now the existence of their sleeper agents has come to light.

Six, what a debacle. And everything that’s happened so far is only the beginning—recovering the prince and Scientia is undoubtedly going to be the easiest part of this week. There will be endless meetings, tedious and brimming with tension in equal measures, as they attempt to prevent something like this from ever happening again.

If there’s one thing he’s certain of now, it’s that there’s no way Drautos and Luche are the only double agents the empire has planted over the years. How many of Insomnia’s citizens are working without rest to bring the Wall down in whatever ways they can? A few? Dozens? Hundreds? They might not know until it’s too late.

Yeah. Right. Too late has definitely come and gone.

Cor eyes him, and Nyx realizes he scoffed aloud instead of just in his head. Well, fine. Let his displeasure with how things have gone be known. Maybe they’ll actually be prepared if a situation like this ever arises again. He, for one, plans to be.

“Stop beating yourself up, Ulric. You couldn’t have prevented this.”

Nyx knows he has a decent poker face when he needs it, so either it’s slipped dramatically over the last few hours, or Cor has an uncomfortably clear read on him. Maybe it’s a perk of being the Immortal. “That obvious, huh?”

“When it’s on the mind of every loyal soldier here, yes.” Cor adjusts his hold on the prince, tucking the boy—no, the _young man_ —deeper into his shoulder. “This is hardly the fault of a single person.”

“Maybe not, but they are—were both men I’ve worked closely with for years. I should have noticed _something_.”

A scoff is his only answer as Cor turns his attention to safely navigating through a rough section of the path. Chunks of rock large and small have sheered away, crumbled by time and erosion, leaving jagged-edged holes through which the canyon’s floor is visible far, far below. Nyx has his daggers again; he’ll be fine if he falls. Cor, the prince cradled in his arms, won’t.

And so they move slow and careful, hugging the cliff wall wherever possible. Even so, rocks are crushed to chalky powder beneath their boots; dislodged fragments clatter away down into the gorge, the echoes of their descents making them sound larger than they are.

Maybe enough will fall and they’ll arrange themselves in a cairn over Drautos’s body. Probably not, though—and anyway, it’s better than the traitor deserves.

But no, that isn’t true. Nyx chose the path of a mercy killing rather than leaving him to suffer in agony—a courtesy Drautos certainly didn’t offer him, but one Nyx felt compelled to follow through on. Does that make him a better man than his former captain?

Hard to gauge when he was deliberate in asking for the slower death. The right decision, it turned out, because he’s still alive, even if it was a near thing. Again his hand drifts up to his chest, fingers catching on the torn leather, still tacky with blood. His blood.

A horrible way to die, being stabbed. Left to bleed out, aware there was nothing he could do to hasten the slow, chilling creep of death as it swallowed his life second by excruciating second. Didn’t even have one of his daggers at hand to finish the job properly. Drautos could have slit his throat, or jammed the blade down through the base of his neck; there was no reason to draw out the agony as long as he did. Maybe Drautos respected him just enough to set aside the gun but not enough to make the end a swift one.

Bastard.

As exhausted as he is, he’s aware enough to understand his perception of everything that’s happened isn’t exactly clear right now. Emotions are still too close to the surface, live wires running under his skin, ready to spark and flare at the slightest contact; his thoughts tumble about and grind together like the stones underfoot, too loud, crushing, deafening, until he can’t think past the awful noise between his ears and beneath his boots.

* * *

He doesn’t remember the last part of their climb out of the ravine. One moment they’re hiking up a treacherously steep path; the next they’ve broken over the top and are being approached by what feels like a crowd, people swelling around him in a wave, one rising to choke him and one he has no way of stopping, no matter how tight his grip on his daggers.

It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize the king is at the head of the group of perhaps five or six people, hardly a crowd. Already he’s reaching for Noctis, still insensate in Cor’s arms, and Nyx has to turn away from the naked pain and fear and relief twisting his liege’s face. None of it is for him to witness.

“There you are.”

A hand finds his arm, fingers curling around his elbow, and Nyx’s body reacts before his brain, twisting out of his assailant’s hold as he draws his daggers, ready to carve flesh from bone. He’ll never be caught unaware again.

“Hey, whoa, Nyx, it’s just me.”

Nyx puts a name to the familiar voice just in time to halt the arc of his blades before today’s death tally can rise again. Ice water trickles through his veins as he takes in Pelna’s wide-eyed expression, caught somewhere between concern and fear.

“Pelna, I...” Words fail him, so he sheathes his blades again instead—or tries to. It takes a second try to slide them home into their sheaths, even though they’re movements he’s completed hundreds of times before. The thought slips from his mind as soon as the familiar hilts leave his hands and his instincts flare hot and bright, signaling him to grab hold of his weapons once more. What if there are more traitors around? He has to... has to be ready. Alert. Aware. Prepared.

“It’s fine.” Pelna releases a visible breath—and then the line of his shoulders smooths out under his coat, as though he weren’t in danger of being stabbed a moment ago. The only discomfort showing lingers in the thin lines of pain creasing the skin around his eyes, the same tension visible on anyone who’s received curative magic that’s worked to erase the wound but not the memory.

Which reminds him: he probably looks the same. Great.

“Are you okay?” he finds himself asking, even though he isn’t certain he wants to hear about even one more injury today. This sordid mess seems to have left no one unscathed. Better to ask than being asked about, though.

Pelna’s expression stills, too fast and too _much_ to be anything besides deliberate; then he glances at the people moving around them, as though looking for someone—or to avoid looking at him. “Who, me? Uh-huh, sure, I’m... y’know, I’m good.”

Yeah, right. Nyx exhales, fast and then carefully slow when the air snags deep in his lungs again. Gotta watch that—and maybe find another potion when he gets the chance. “I’m sure you are.”

Pelna’s gaze flickers back to him, darting down to his chest for a moment, and Nyx fights the urge to cover the stained slit in his uniform. It feels like he’s wearing a target. “About the same as you, I imagine.”

This isn’t something he’s ready to talk about yet—maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, maybe in a week, but not right now—so he shrugs, ignores the way his uniform tugs on his skin, fused together as they are with dried blood. How to answer this? “I—”

“ _Ulric_.”

Thank the Six for Cor’s excellent timing.

“Yeah, I gotta go.” He clasps Pelna’s shoulder, grip light out of difference to his recent injury. “We’ll talk later.”

They’ve been friends long enough for him to recognize Pelna wants to keep pushing, but this isn’t the time and certainly isn’t the place, not with so many people around, so he nods and doesn’t hinder Nyx from moving to join the knot of people surrounding the king and his son, still in Cor’s arms, as they hurry toward the vehicles they arrived in. Amicitia the elder stalks King Regis’s back, gaze as sharp as his sword when he looks Nyx over. He makes no effort to hide the way he’s assessing him as a potential threat before he nods, silently granting Nyx permission to finish his approach.

After everything Nyx has done to save the prince and his adviser, after everything he’s sacrificed, he figures maybe he’s earned the right to be regarded without suspicion—but then again, wasn’t he just thinking about how a lack of trust is going to be a defining factor over the next few days and weeks and probably months?

So he—slowly—exhales the worst of the bristling agitation before falling into position beside Cor’s elbow—a familiar enough spot after how many times he did it with... with Drautos. Six, every memory of him is tainted now. Maybe in time the bitter, oily taste in the back of his mouth will go away. If he’s really, really lucky.

“Ulric, door,” Cor says, nodding to the nearest car. Nyx steps around him, careful not to accidentally elbow the prince’s head by mistake, and opens the rear door. Force of habit has him standing at attention as King Regis hastens to position himself in the back seat before holding out his arms so Cor can transfer the prince’s limp body to him. The whole process is smooth and only takes a few moments; then Cor motions Nyx to take shotgun while he steps around the vehicle to slide into the driver’s seat. There’s an urgency to his movements that prompts Nyx into hurrying, dropping with some relief into the car. Amicitia is the last to join them, at his king’s side, as always, and as soon as the final door shuts, Cor throws the car in gear, and they shoot off toward Insomnia.

The large city glimmers in the distance behind the protection of the Wall, looking much the same as Nyx remembers from the first time he saw it, several years ago now. The city’s edges are closer to the shimmering barrier than they used to be, maybe, but overall little has changed. Which seems wrong, almost, or at least strange after everything that’s happened. Their shielded city, the only true refuge from the empire’s amassed military might—except it isn’t as impenetrable as they hoped, or maybe just imagined, it was. There’s no way Drautos was only recently swayed to the empire’s cause, a suspicion of Nyx’s confirmed by the mercenary who saved him. Drautos had been corrupted a long time ago. Maybe he’d been on the empire’s side from the beginning.

And if him, how many others? He has—had known Drautos and Luche for years. The odds of other people that he knows existing within the empire’s pocket are... Yeah. Really rather painful, so he tries not to think about it. Which might be easier were it not for everything else that’s happened. This is going to be a time of intense turmoil and change within the city, all while they teeter ever-closer to the brink of war. It’s going to be difficult, emotionally and physically. He’s already... already given everything for his king and his prince once.

He should be dead. Drautos _executed_ him—kneeling, final request, and all. He was left to bleed out, to die a slow and agonizing death.

One, yeah, he did ask for. Not because he desired the pain, but he had to take the chance Drautos wouldn’t actually kill him in cold blood. A nonexistent chance, as the bone-deep ache in his chest keeps reminding him, but it was the only option left, for the prince if not for him. He had to take it, no matter the cost.

He would be dead right now were it not for that mercenary showing up out of nowhere. He owes her his life.

But he owed King Regis his life first, and he made a vow— _for hearth and home_. Six. He’ll never be able to hear those words again without questioning the motives behind them. Maybe it’s been an imperial rallying point all along. Wouldn’t that just figure?

And no matter how he tries, he can’t break out of the helical thoughts or shake off the chill that’s clung to his bones like hoarfrost since Drautos murdered him. Ran him through, was ready to leave him for dead, and death had certainly come prowling, draining his strength away with each faltering pump of his heart, agonizing even through the blanketing shock. He’s never going to forget the way it felt: icy blade in his chest, a terrifying awareness of how close deadly steel was to his heart, the streaking fire following the blade’s wake when it left his body. Gagging on his own blood as it bubbled up his throat, suffocating him, choking him—

“Nyx.”

He starts at the use of his name, lurching out of the memories with a chopped-off breath before he remembers he’s still alive, still able to breathe, still alive.

Blinking several times, he glances around to reorient himself—in the car, traveling back to Insomnia, _safe_ —and only then turns, wincing at the movement, to find the king staring at him, brow furrowed with a new tension he’s never seen before. Perhaps that’s no surprise—the last two days haven’t been easy, especially for a man who’s both king and father.

“Yes, Majesty, sorry, I... was thinking.”

“Indeed. Much has happened.” As King Regis speaks, he, in what appears to be an absentminded gesture, runs his fingers through the edge of his son’s untamed hair, brushing it back from his pale face. “And more change is coming.”

Amicitia and Cor both take a moment to glance at the king, and Nyx suspects he’s wearing an expression similar to theirs as the grave declaration settles with tangible weight inside the dark interior of the car. A king holding his wounded and unconscious son as he declares change makes for a striking image—one, Nyx thinks, might even be capable of putting a temporary halt to the low-level grumblings he’s heard from the people who have fled into the safety offered by Insomnia’s Wall.

Offered by the man who’s currently regarding him with a thoughtfulness that’s solemn but also intense enough it’s all Nyx can do not to look away. One cannot be a good ruler without the ability to read others, and Regis is no exception. Normally Nyx admires that quality, but today it makes him want to crawl out of skin that no longer feels like his. It’s too soon after... after everything. Too soon, too much.

After what feels like an eternity, King Regis finds whatever it is he’s looking for and audibly exhales as he sits back with an expression that isn’t quite pleased, but it isn’t disapproving either. “You did well today, Nyx Ulric.”

The praise is nice, but honestly, he just wants to warp straight home to his apartment and sleep for ten hours straight. Maybe more—ten doesn’t seem like enough. Fifteen hours sounds more reasonable. Twenty, even.

Wait, he’s supposed to be focusing. At least the reply rolls easily off his tongue. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

And he wouldn’t really mind if the conversation ended right there. Now that he’s sitting, the demands placed upon his body over the last two days are catching up with him, but the king hasn’t released him from his stare, still weighing some decision or another, and really, this is all well and good, but he thinks maybe he’s getting a touch motion sick from staring in the opposite direction the car is traveling. It’s never been a problem before, but run-of-the-mill doesn’t seem to exist right now.

“But,” the king continues, because _of course_ things can’t be simple today, “I cannot help noticing we’re two people short.”

“Two?” The question slips free before Nyx has time to consider the answer, but even once he has, it still doesn’t make sense. Drautos is— _was_ a significant part of protecting Insomnia, but Luche was officially just another soldier, no more or less important than the next member of the Glaive. Callous as the thought is, he won’t be difficult to replace. Drautos, on the other hand...

“I am in need of a new captain of the Glaive,” Regis says, as though reading Nyx’s thoughts. His stare is still intense enough that it’s a possibility. Does the Crystal bestow mind reading to Insomnia’s monarch? Hopefully not, that would be creepy. “But right now I’m more concerned with the absence of the third mercenary.”

Oh. Yeah. He shifts a little in his seat, already anticipating all the ways this won’t go well. “Majesty?”

“Did she side with Drautos in the end?”

It sounds to Nyx like no one has told him about what happened, and a glance down at the motionless prince is a solid reminder of why that’s likely the case. “No, she didn’t, Majesty.”

“Did Drautos kill her?”

No, Drautos killed _him_ , but he won’t be able to force the words out even if he wants to. “No, Majesty. She’s alive.”

King Regis nods, expression indicating he expected this answer. “I’ve been told she’s a capable fighter, but I nevertheless find it difficult to believe she possesses enough skill to take on my shield, the marshal of the Crownsguard, and my best Glaive all at once and win.”

Despite three of the four conscious people in the car receiving mentions, Nyx gets the distinct impression he’s being singled out. When King Regis’s gaze doesn’t leave him, impression indurates into certainty. And he supposes it’s only fair. Cor’s and Amicitia’s first priorities will always be the royal line. That’s their job. His is to take care of the rest.

Which he did, right up until it no longer became necessary, so he squares his shoulders and pretends it doesn’t make his chest throb. “We fought with her, Majesty, not against.”

“Indeed. Which abolished the standing order to capture all the imperials involved in this matter. Temporarily. I assume she stayed until Drautos was taken care of?”

The biting metallic reek of blood, a choked gurgle, life draining from blue eyes—he’ll never forget a single detail. “Yes, Majesty.”

“And then you let her walk away.”

“It wasn’t—” No. _No_ , screw this, he isn’t letting false assumptions win. “Only because _your son_ ordered me to, sire, and I’m duty-bound to obey him.”

“ _My son_ has just been through a traumatic experience—you should have disregarded any orders he issued on the grounds of them being unsound decisions.”

There’s probably some completely valid reason Nyx can blame his ensuing scoff on: exhaustion, lack of emotional and physical discipline, an indignation that goes beyond titles—hell, blood loss works. Which, now that he’s thinking about it, might explain why his head feels like it’s not quite fully attached. Right, so that’s just great. “Had I done so, my decision would’ve remained the same.”

“Oh? Due to what reasoning?”

“She risked her own life to save mine—ours. The marshal’s in particular. She was clearly going to make a move that would’ve left her defenseless had your son not struck a fatal blow.”

King Regis’s gaze finally slips, cutting away toward the man they all thought they’d already lost once today. If Cor’s aware of the scrutiny being placed upon him, he doesn’t show it. “I see.”

“And,” Nyx continues, because the words are escaping now and damming them up seems wrong when he’s convinced of their truth, “on a broader scale, she didn’t have to help us fight at all. She could have escaped with ease while we were busy. But she didn’t. She stayed, she fought alongside us. She chose to save our lives.”

_She saved my life_.

Brief though it is, the silence that follows almost drowns out the hum of the tires as King Regis again stares at him, weighty gaze probing deep. Unlike before, Nyx doesn’t feel the urge to squirm. Fatigue is rapidly settling in now, spreading through him like poison, sapping away what little strength he has left, but he’s sunk his teeth into this bone, and he’ll be damned if he gives it up when he believes wholeheartedly this is right.

But there’s no fight. Instead, King Regis leans back into his seat with what’s definitely a smile curling into his beard. “I did promise you a pay raise. How does double your current wage sound?”

Wait. “Double?” How...?

“Nyx Ulric, I am formally extending to you the position of captain of the Kingsglaive.” He raises his hand from Prince Noctis’s hair before a single protest can solidify into tangible words. “You need not accept right now—in fact, you are going to take two days’ leave to recover and decide what you want to do. That’s an order.”

The pointed look King Regis levels at what feels like the gaping hole in his uniform makes his stomach clench and his palms slick beneath his gloves. Anyone with a brain can make an educated guess as to what happened, he reminds himself, but the details are his alone. No reason to panic.

Wait. Captain of the Glaive? Him? _Seriously_?

“I... Um. Yes. Yes, of course, Majesty,” he replies, the words tumbling in reflexive patterns from his lips and landing in his lap like chunks of stone when he finally faces forward in his seat once more. Him. Captain of the Glaive. Right, that’s... really not how he expected things to turn out. Wow.

But Drautos is dead, and King Regis clearly needs someone he can trust to lead his Glaive—which apparently is him. He’s not sure if he deserves the position so much as he’s been in all the right places at the right times. Surely he isn’t fit to lead the entire Glaive. Doesn’t that involve meetings and paperwork and... other equally boring tasks? Drautos rarely spent any time training with them, though whether that was because he was busy with actual leadership duties or spying for the empire, he has no idea.

Right now, the thought of leading anyone anywhere sounds exhausting. Impossible, even. He’s given his all today. Maybe King Regis is right: this is something to consider when he can successfully string two coherent sentences together again, so he tips his head back into the seat, closes his eyes, and wishes everything could stop hurting for a while.

* * *

It’s a forty minute drive back to the Citadel, and Nyx doesn’t remember most of it.

Which isn’t exactly a great state of mind for a Kingsglaive, regardless of whether he’s been temporarily relieved of duty or not, but he’s pretty sure he manages to avoid passing out completely, so that’s something.

“Ulric.”

He grunts, fingers catching on the sliced edge of his uniform as he drags his eyes open to find Cor looking him over with a calculative expression that instantly makes Nyx’s hackles rise, even though it takes him several seconds too long to remember why that’s the case.

Been murdered, murdered in return, very bad day all around. Except getting a promotion—yippee.

Hang on, Cor is still staring at him, only tipping his head in a meaningful sort of way when Nyx makes himself meet the older man’s gaze. Looking out the window reveals a familiar building Nyx sees every evening after he’s gotten off work.

Some—not all, but a little—of the ache in his chest melts away at the sight. Home has never looked so good before.

It occurs to him they’ve gone just far enough out of their way to drop him off, so he swiftly makes all the proper departing remarks before exiting the car so they can complete their journey to the Citadel. Once the car is out of sight, he turns and trudges his way up to his apartment, unable to stop thinking about King Regis’s offer.

Already the position rests with considerable weight over his shoulders, a heavy draped cloak he never asked for, never even truly considered. He’s a soldier first and foremost, not a negotiator or bureaucrat or anything else Drautos had to be. He enjoys what he’s been doing within the Glaive—stepping over the backs of all his peers to claim leadership over them doesn’t seem right somehow.

But if he doesn’t accept, who will King Regis ask instead? Is anyone within the Glaive qualified to lead them? Pelna? Libertus? Crowe? Tredd? None seem like the right fit, but maybe his opinion will change once he’s finally slept.

Beyond the question of who can lead is who should? The entire Glaive, and indeed the entirety of Lucis, has already been betrayed once—it cannot happen again. Not from such a high-ranking position.

Besides, he doesn’t have any intention of ever betraying Lucis. King Regis saved his life, gave him hope and purpose where he had none. Objectively, he knows he’s the ideal candidate to take over the Glaive—at least right now. Even the most loyal soldier can be turned. He’d have to insert fail-safes to prevent corruption on Drautos’s scale from ever happening again.

And yet, as he lets himself into his apartment and staggers his way through shedding his uniform, he finds his thoughts turning to the more personal, more visceral. The memory of Prince Noctis standing scared but brave with a gun pressed into his jaw. His wild expression when he warped into Drautos to finish the fight. The sorrow in King Regis’s eyes as he carried his unconscious and wounded son.

What are they fighting for if not to bring hope to the next generation? Isn’t that reason enough to take on a position of greater responsibility, so he can create as much change and prevent the worst disasters from repeating?

Huh. Maybe it isn’t such a difficult choice after all.

His mind is already made up as, for the last time today, he stumbles and falls—right into bed to let the remainder of today’s aches and pains fade away.


End file.
